The Poker Player
by KiSierra
Summary: There is a statue theft in a museum in the other side of New York. Neal kind of loves it, because he can finally visit an art gallery outside of his radius, and also because Peter grumbles. A lot.
1. Chapter 1

There is a statue theft in a museum in the other side of New York. Neal kind of loves it, because he can finally visit an art gallery outside of his radius, and also because Peter grumbles. A lot. The old man doesn't have one fiber of an artist in him, that's crystal clear. It's still fun to drag him over there and watch him squirm between the paintings like a caveman.

The statue is five years old, which is not very impressive, but it's fairly liked by the audiences. Sally Blofis didn't sell another piece after The Poker Player, but the life-sized figurines made enough of an impression. It was a great job, by what the pictures allow Neal to see anyway. He's really curious about the real statue.

They look for witnesses or evidence - there are none - and then go to meet the artist herself, who was brought to the museum to gather information.

Sally Blofis looks at them, hands rested over her swelling belly, and smiles pleasantly. "I'm sorry, I can't help you. My days as a statuer were very short. It was something I tried as one-time experience and never got back to. I don't remember too much about the making of The Poker Player or the selling of it, I'm past that time in my life now. We've been through some major changes."

Peter leaned in a little bit. "I understand that, Mrs. Blofis, but we still need to make sure there's nothing we missed. Can you, for example, think of anyone who has some sort of a grudge against you, that might have taken it out by stealing your art?"

Her son, a teenaged boy who presented himself as Percy, furrows his brow at that, but Sally remains calm and polite. "No, I do not. Not many know of my statue, I didn't speak about it to anyone outside of the family."

"And by family you mean…"

Her smile widens. She looks at her son adoringly. "My son and my husband, who's at work right now. What else?"

Peter keeps on investigating, and Neal leaves that to him, instead letting his instincts lead him. He focuses on Mrs. Blofis and her smile - warm, but measured - and her body language - too still to be comfortable - and her hands. Mostly he looks at her hands.

Percy catches him staring and their eyes lock. The boy's - no more than eighteen - vivid green eyes darken, his jaw clenching. Neal tilts his head ever so slightly, letting his lips curl into the smallest of smiles, and Percy frowns but stays straight and confident. He's a stubborn one.

He catches his mom's hand. "Hey, look, I know you need us for the investigation, but we obviously don't know anything, and mom has an appointment with a doctor that we're going to miss if we stay here any longer. So…"

Sally nods and stands up, albeit slowly with her puffed belly, before Peter can retort. "I hope you'll find the thief soon, but don't bother yourself with updating us in any case. We prefer to leave that time in the past."

And then the pregnant woman and her lean son leave the museum, leaving Neal a clear path to stare after them, deep in thought.

"What do you think?" Peter asks with a sigh, and Neal shakes his head, making sure his fedora stays just a little bit tilted.

"Something here stinks."


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't think she's the artist."

Peter turns his head to him from his computer and raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Sally Blofis." Neal leans against the door frame and returns a slightly-amused-but-mostly-serious look to his boss. "I don't think she actually made The Poker Player."

Peter turns his body fully towards him with a resigned look that Neal chooses to take as excited.

"And what makes you think that, Neal?"

"A few things," he says, feigning disinterest. "Like how her name wasn't signed on the card with the statue's name, just in the gallery's archaeons. Or how she held the pen with her right hand when you told her to sign those papers, and to make the exact pose to The Poker Player's legs she should be favouring her left hand. Or how she didn't care at all about the fate of the statue that was supposed to take her months, if not years, to complete."

Peter shakes his head. "You can't really stand behind these arguments, and you know it, Neal."

"Maybe. But you have to admit that this is strange. She only made one work in her entire life, one that was so precise and realistic it could not possibly be her first work, and when she finishes it she sells it to the museum and hurries to move on with her life. And when something _happens_ to it - she doesn't even want to know if it's found or not. She doesn't care at all about something that should have been the work of her life."

Peter is shaking his head. "We still can't investigate that, not on these claims. It doesn't even have anything to do with the actual investigation."

Neal straightens, letting his mask of boredom fall. "Yeah, but it could have. This work isn't famous, Peter. It looks great, but it's just five years old, made by pretty much a noname, and it's not really important to anyone in particular. Why would anyone bother steal that? It would be easier to just buy it. It's not worth the trouble, and if it's coming from me, you know it means something."

Peter considers it. Neal knows because Peter's not answering immediately, and his mouth is tilted in that way that means he's trying really hard to look tired instead of intrigued.

"Fine," he relents after a minute of silence, and immediately sends Neal a glare that warns him not to look too satisfied with himself. Neal pretends not to notice. "We'll look into this. But if nothing comes up, we're moving on, you get that?"

"Sure, sure," Neal hums. He's not worried. Something is going to come up eventually, and if his gut is right - and it is five times out of three - it's going to be something big.


	3. Chapter 3

It's something huge.

"I'm telling you, this is not a coincidence," Neal stresses. Peter stays quiet, probably because he knows that Neal is right and doesn't want to acknowledge that. It's a good thing Neal has already mastered the fine art of ignoring him.

They are in the hospital, waiting outside one of the patients' rooms. The file next to the door bears, in big, organised letters, the name that caused their hasty arrival to the hospital's white corridors in the middle of a fairly regular Thursday. _Gabriel Ugliano_.

"Peter, I'm serious," Neal says. "This has to be connected to the missing statue. You told me yourself Mrs. Blofis said her inspiration to The Poker Player was her husband as of then - the person who went missing and declared dead shortly after she sold her statue to the museum. And now he shows up? Out of nowhere? After _five years_ of nothing? And on top of that, he comes back exactly three days after -"

"The statue went missing, I know," Peter cuts in sharply. "But this isn't solid evidence. It could still be just a coincidence." Neal opens his mouth to protest, but Peter scowls at him so aggressively he immediately shuts it. "Don't push me here, Neal. I came running the moment you found out this Ugliano guy was found, but this is us just making sure we aren't missing any leads on our investigation. Our own, _separate_ investigation. We have more than enough other cases we need to check. If we don't find anything, we leave Gabriel Ugliano alone."

"But -"

Peter huffs and turns away. "This is final, Caffrey. You can't always have what you want. It might actually do you some good, to let go for once."

Neal wilts in his chair, feeling ready to sulk. This isn't his somewhat-of-a-friend Peter, his I-kind-of-almost-trust-you Peter. This is FBI-obedient-agent Peter. The one who shows up when the stuck-ups in charge of the agency start complaining, mostly about inefficiency and expenses and Neal - always about Neal even though their statistics only improved since he joined their side of the game - and pile extra work on Peter and the other agents until they feel satisfied again. This is the resultant no-fun Peter. Neal can recognize the symptoms.

A nurse exits Ugliano's room and sends them a disapproving look. "The patient seems to be stable; you may go in. Even though he's supposed to be resting."

Peter sighs at her stern voice. "Thank you, miz. We'll try to be quick." Neal adds a charming smile as they pass her, just to see her eyes softening.

The man lying on the bed inside is fat and bald and sour-looking, and kind of smelly. Neal scrunches up his nose in distaste. He's seen pictures of Ugliano from his missing-person file, was prepared for the extraordinary ugliness, but nothing could prepare him for the awful _smell._ How is this guy living with himself? Neal already misses fresh air.

And, as expected, Ugliano looks just as disgusting as Sally Blofis's unique statue. He modeled for her, without a doubt.

"Hello, Mr. Ugliano," Peter says, friendly enough, but Ugliano's scowl deepens.

"Who are you supposed to be?" He asks derogatorily.

Neal smirks to himself. He moves to examine the view through the only window in the room as Peter takes the seat next to the bed, neither of them in any rush to answer. Witnessing Peter handle the ruder people they interrogate is one of Neal's not-so-secret pleasures.

"I'm agent Peter Burke, FBI," Peter eventually drawls. "And this is Neal, my consultant."

"What?" Ugliano bursts. "FBI? The cops were here earlier, I already told them everything I know. I can't remember anything, I swear!"

Peter leans back in his seat. "You can't? At all?"

Ugliano shakes his head vehemently. "They told me it's been five years, _five,_ but I don't remember anything. I was in my apartment, looking for a drink, going through my shit like every other day, and suddenly - boom, I wake up in the middle of God knows where, with exactly the same clothes and everything. When that paramedic guy told me how long it's been I was sure he was just messing with me. Thought I was gonna punch him if he doesn't drop the show."

Neal holds back a snort. The guy isn't too bright if he tells an FBI agent, of all people, he considered punching a paramedic.

"I see," Peter says noncommittally. "So you say you woke up in exactly the same state you were in the day you disappeared, is that right?"

Neal's smirk widens, though he doesn't turn away from the window. He's not too eager to put his eyes on Ugliano's less than aesthetically-pleasing face again, but he can enjoy Peter's surrender to this intriguing mystery just as well by hearing alone. Their "own, _separate_ investigation" his ass; Peter couldn't _not_ ask questions about Ugliano's disappearance even if he wanted to stay focused on the statue. He knows, just like Neal, that the incidents are connected.

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying," Ugliano declares loudly, as if expecting someone to contradict him. "I mean, except for how tired and hungry I was, and that I could barely move my body at first - I was totally the same. Look! I still have this, after all this time!"

Neal turns around in time to see Ugliano lifting one hairy arm from the bed, turning it to show its backside. A large scab is there, just beneath the elbow, still in the process of healing. It looks a few days old, at most.

"I got this while washing the dishes, broke a plate and cut myself. Maybe a day or two before the whole… disappearing thing. I _remember_ it. Sally will say the same if you ask her, she was there. I'm still exactly the same."

Peter hums, almost careless. Neal looks at his expressionless face and sighs. He knows before Peter opens his mouth how the Sally comment is affecting his next words.

"Mr. Ugliano, are you aware of your ex-wife's statue?"

"My what?" he barks.

Neal examines Ugliano's face very closely, despite the general unpleasantness, as Peter says slowly, "Sally's statue, The Poker Player."

Ugliano's eyes go comically wide. "Ex? You called her my _ex-_ wife? _What?!"_

"Seems like no one told you yet," Peter says, cautious, though his tone has softened. "I'm sure -"

"No, just tell me that," Ugliano bursts, saliva flying from his mouth. "Is she married? Did she marry someone else? Tell me!"

Neal raises an eyebrow. Peter seems tense, uncomfortable, but moves his head in a single nod.

There is utter silence in the room for exactly two seconds. Then Ugliano curses, long and profound, and starts to rant, seeming to forget in what sort of company he's in.

"I can't believe it, I can't believe her, her and her punk son, of course she betrayed me - he must've convinced her, that little terrorist - they better not be expecting alimony from me, the two thieves - I can't believe she did this to me, that traitorous, greedy bi -"

"Gabriel," Peter cuts in pointedly, and Neal watches the walrus of a man as he turns his furious gaze to Neal's boss. "Whatever misunderstanding between you and Sally you need to clear up, do it with her, please. Concentrate on the statue. What do you know about it?"

"What statue? What are you talking about?" Ugliano spits. The vein in his forehead looks too bulged to be healthy. "First she marries someone else and now she makes statues? I never heard of it, I have no idea - I don't know what you want from me, dammit - I blink for _one moment_ and find myself in this screwed up alternate reality -"

Neal makes a swift decision. "Thank you for your time, Gabriel," he states loudly, taps Peter's shoulder as he passes him and promptly leaves the room. He doubts Ugliano even heard him through his mental breakdown.

A moment later Peter joins him in the corridor. "What do you think you're doing, Neal?" he demands.

Neal raises his hands in surrender. "I just think the nurse will handle it better, don't you?" Peter scowls. "Anyway, we got everything we needed."

"Which is what, exactly?"

Neal smiles. "Gabriel Ugliano, who must have been Sally's muse for her statue The Poker Player, is not even aware the statue exists. The statue that she sold to the museum mere days after his disappearance. The statue that should have taken her days upon days to complete, if not months and years, which means she was working on it while she they were married. And yet, he doesn't know anything about it."

Peter rocks back on his feet and shakes his head tiredly. "Neal, not this again."

"Yes this again, Peter," Neal says determinately. "I was right. Sally Blofis didn't make The Poker Player."

Peter looks at him warily. "You don't have proof and you know that. And even if you did - so what? We just need to find the damn thing, not its maker."

Neal doesn't dignify that with a response more elaborate than a snort. The two things are thoroughly intertwined and they both know it. Peter rolls his eyes.

"Okay, _fine,_ say that Sally isn't the artist. Who the hell is?"

Neal turns and starts walking to the elevator, a slight smirk gracing his lips. "That's exactly what I intend to find out."


End file.
